A long, slow burn
by cameomac
Summary: This started as scenes detailing the developing friendship between Sherlock and Watson, but it has turned into something else entirely. Chapter 4 begins to get darker, further chapters may end up changing rating to M.
1. Chapter 1

[**MY deepest apologies - this was meant to be Chapter 1. I have rearranged them; Sorry for any confusion.]**

I'm going to kill him.

Even if I can somehow manage to wash the smell of unfiltered sewage water out of my tights, I am never going to get the stench out of my nose.

He couldn't be content just to send me on a pointless mission that took me crawling through the boroughs' sewer systems. Oh, no, not Sherlock Holmes. That would be too easy.

Too sane.

To really drive his point home, he had to make sure I knew the assignment was nothing but busywork.

"A thorough investigation cannot be rushed, Watson. A day foraging through the sewers will do you good," he said, wearing that smug little smirk he gets when he's busy reveling in his superiority. "It will teach you patience."

"Then why don't you go?" I mutter, half under my breath.

"Because I am not the one complaining of having nothing to do."

Sherlock's moods are always hard to predict, but ever since I told him I feel like I'm not doing enough work to justify my salary, the only word I can use to describe him is cranky. He's acting like he did when I first met him – sarcastic and petulant.

If this is the way he is now, I don't even want to imagine what he's going to be like when I tell him I got my medical license back.

_If_ I get it back.

"Ah, Watson, you're here," he says as I march through the door, my boots leaving a pungent trail of watery prints behind me. "You're late. I expected you half an hour ago. I told the sanitation department you would begin work at eight."

He tosses the envelope in his hand down on the desk, where it is almost lost among the clutter of files and dossiers. "Still… no harm done, I suppose. You'll simply have to forgo dinner."

Before I can tell him that there is no way I am going anywhere but into a hot shower, my eyes focus on the part of the envelope still visible.

"Sherlock, that has my name on it."

"You had best hurry, Watson, I hear the better assignments tend to be given out on a first-come first-serve basis."

"Sherlock, give me my letter."

He gets that look in his eyes – the mulish one he gets when he doesn't want to do something. A muscle tics in his jaw as he stiffly extends his arm. "Here."

I turn the letter over in my hands. It bears the return address of the Medical Review Board, postmarked over a week ago. "I've been waiting for this. When did it get here?"

"Tuesday, I believe." He shrugs, unconcerned. "Perhaps it was Wednesday. I can't be expected to remember such trivial details."

"Trivial?" I can't believe it… it's been here for days and I didn't know it. I want to open it, but suddenly I'm too scared. What if the news isn't what I want to hear? "You have no idea how worried I've been."

"You shouldn't have been; I knew you wouldn't fail." His voice is surprisingly distant. The cool, impersonal tone seems somehow wrong after all we have been through. "The board wrote quite a glowing letter welcoming you back."

I tear open the envelope, needing to see the words for myself. It was true; I was officially a doctor again.

And somehow Sherlock knew before I did.

I don't swear a lot, but right now it's taking all of my willpower not to use every curse word I know. "You opened my mail."

"It's always good to keep up with even the most rudimentary of skills. A fact you might wish to remember after you leave here." Busying himself with the papers on the table, he dismisses me with a flick of his hand.

"Leave? There is no way I'm going out again tonight. The sanitation department can go hang."

"Come, Watson, there is no need to play coy with me." He looks up from a file but won't meet my gaze. Instead, he stares at a point somewhere over my left shoulder. "Your recent dissatisfaction with your work, the reinstatement of your medical license… it is obvious you wish to resume your previous profession as a surgeon." His jaw moves as if he wants to say something else, but no words come out.

"That's what this has all been about? You're punishing me because I wanted to get my license back?"

"Ridiculous. I wasn't attempting to punish you. I was merely attempting to cement what I have taught you in your mind." His voice quiets, and for the first time I hear the vulnerability he's been trying to conceal. "I would not care for you to forget our time together."

I am absolutely going to kill him.

He is obnoxious, arrogant, and condescending, and just when I want nothing more than to walk away and pretend I never met him…

…he lets me see a glimpse of the man hiding behind his walls.

"With your exemplary capabilities combined with the deductive skills I have taught you, I am sure you will easily find a suitable position," he continues, his voice regaining its cynical edge. "You will be quite an asset to the institutions that pass for healthcare these days."

Oh, that's just like Sherlock, burying a compliment in self-conceit.

For that, and for all he's put me through the last few days, I am so going to enjoy this.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," I say, keeping my face calm and impassive so he can't read what I'm really feeling, "but there's one major flaw in your thinking."

The first hint of doubt appears in his cool blue eyes. "How so?"

"I didn't renew my license because I wanted to work in a hospital. I did it because I thought it might help in our investigations."

"You did?"

"Sherlock, do you realize how many times we've snuck into the morgue so you could have me examine a body? I thought it might be nice if I could conduct legal autopsies."

"Ah… I see." His entire body stills as he process my revelation. "I had not considered that possibility."

"I will admit," I add, savoring the slightly sheepish look he cannot completely disguise, "I did think about maybe applying to tutor a class at the teaching hospital. You were right about one thing. The things you've taught me have made me a better doctor. I think they could help others, too. That is, if you don't mind me teaching some of your methods in a place that only 'passes' for healthcare."

Satisfied I've made my point, I place the envelope on the desk in front of him. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to go take a shower."

"Yes, of course." For once, there is no argument in his voice. Instead, he sounds…

Relieved?

"I will make a call to the sanitation department to let them know you are unavailable," he says, his body relaxing from the rigidity it's been carrying for the past week. "They will have to make do without you tonight."

"Oh, but they _are_ expecting me, and I wouldn't want to leave them short-handed." I give him my sweetest smile, not even bothering to hide the pleasure I am taking in besting the great Sherlock Holmes. "I know - _you_ can fill in for me."

He dips his head once, acknowledging my victory. "Of course, Watson. It would be my pleasure to stand in your place."

"And Holmes… that's _Dr._ Watson." I hadn't realized until now, but I've missed the way that sounds.

And coming from Sherlock, it will be even sweeter.

"Of course." The edges of his mouth curl up in a smile I'm not sure he's even aware of. "Sleep well, Dr. Watson; I shall see you in the morning when you wake."


	2. Chapter 2

**(Watson has been attacked during an undercover operation she has been assisting the police with. After going to the hospital to have her injuries checked out, Sherlock brings her back to the brownstone.)**

Watson shuffles through the door with the weighty tread of the heavily medicated. The prescription the hospital gave her is making her sluggish, turning her into a walking shadow of herself. She pulls her coat off and attempts to hang it on the hook.

I watch as it falls to the floor in a crumpled heap.

Picking it up, I hang it where it belongs. In the morning, when the medicine wears off, she will be pleased that everything is in its proper place. She likes when things are orderly. She believes it helps me to stay clean and sober.

She's wrong, of course, but she takes such great joy in lecturing me that it hardly seems fair to argue the point.

She's halfway up the flight of stairs, listing perilously to one side. She is normally quite graceful, but in her current condition she could easily topple down the narrow steps.

Quickening my pace, I hurry into position behind her, ready to catch her should she fall.

Somehow, she makes it to her room and begins to pull her shirt over her head.

I turn my head away. While I have no compunctions about the naked human body, it would not be appropriate to observe Watson when she is unaware of her actions.

More clothes rustle before I hear the creak of the mattress dipping under her weight. The whisper of her coverlet being pulled up alerts me it is safe to look.

Dark circles underscore her eyes, and her skin is pale and waxy. "Thirsty," she says, her voice cracked and hoarse, sounding as painful as the livid bruises encircling her neck.

_The recollection of her lying deathly still on the floor, trapped under a madman's violent attack, flashes through my mind. _

I force it away.

"I'll bring you some tea. It will help your throat."

Downstairs, I set the kettle to boil and begin to prepare a tray. Honey and lemon will soothe some of the pain.

I resented her when we first met. I didn't think I wanted or needed her assistance, but she gave it to me, anyway.

I carry the tea up to her room, but she has already fallen asleep. Her face contracts in pain as she stirs, caught in whatever fevered dreams the narcotics are fashioning for her. Her head flinches to the side.

If I reach out to touch her, will she know it's me, or will she think her attacker has come back?

_He had held her earlier. His hands had been shaking as he reassured them both she was safe._

She stills, the pain disappearing from her expression as she slips deeper into sleep. I draw my hand back and slip out of her room, closing the door quietly behind me.

Downstairs, I try to focus on various projects, but it's of no use. Even the tome on safe cracking fails to hold my interest. My fingers tap restlessly on the book's spine.

Her door is shut and there is no way I could hear anything from her room, but my imagination is busy conjuring delusions of her crying out, needing my help.

I rush upstairs.

She is still sleeping. The covers rise and fall in a deep steady rhythm as she breathes in and out.

She wouldn't want me in here, watching her.

I close the door again, giving her the privacy I know she needs. Leaning against the wooden frame, I sink to the floor, folding my legs underneath me.

If she needs me, I will be here.

In the morning, I hear the sound of movement. Before she can open the door, I rise and head down the hall, my face hidden in the book so she will not realize how worried I have been.

The wood creaks as she steps out from her room.

"Watson, good, you're awake. Clyde is getting hungry and feeding him is your responsibility this month. When you're done with that, we'll begin working on the treatise on fruit bats. I think you'll find it highly enlightening."

"I distinctly remember pet care as being one of your chores, and I have a class to reschedule. I'll read it when I'm ready." Her voice is scratchy, but I can hear no lingering fear in it. It is filled with her customary bravado.

"And Sherlock… thank you."

I don't look up. "It was my privilege to be of assistance."

She moves past me, heading towards the shower, and the tightness in my chest eases. She is safely home where she belongs.


	3. Chapter 3

Dr. Reed leans back in her chair and crosses her legs. "Tell me what happened."

"There isn't much to say. The gas the killer used made things fuzzy." I know it's standard police procedure to talk to a psychiatrist after any sort of on-the-job incident, but this is pointless. I haven't had an appointment with Dr. Reed in months, and I don't need one now.

I'm perfectly fine. The only thing I'm worried about is when Sherlock and I are going to get another client who pays our fee in actual money.

It's not that I dislike the rare Peruvian spices or the free metalworking lessons our clients have given us in exchange for our services, but it's hard to deposit them in my checking account.

I know Sherlock insists I don't need to concern myself with his finances, but there is no way I'm going to let him dip into his trust fund to pay me again.

At least he's agreed to start charging the police for the work we do for them. Now, if he'd only agree to take more cases, not just the ones he finds interesting.

"Joan…" Dr. Reed's voice, as calm and reassuring as I remember it from our weekly sessions, breaks into my thoughts. "I know we're supposed to be discussing what happened to you on your last assignment, but you seem to have something else on your mind. Would you care to discuss it?"

"No, it's fine." The faster I finish this session up, the faster I can get back to the brownstone. If I leave Sherlock alone for too long, there's no telling what he'll get into.

The last time he got bored in my absence, I came back to find he had gone through my closest and thrown away all the shoes he thought were bad for my spinal alignment.

"I'm sorry, what was it you asked, again?"

"I wanted you to tell me what happened the night you were attacked.

"I was on the phone with Sherlock. He had just been to see me, but he had forgotten something. You know the way he gets; he couldn't wait until I finished the case and came home to talk to discuss it. He had to tell me right away."

"The attack, Joan?"

"Oh, right. I didn't realize it, but the sleeping gas must have already been affecting me. Sherlock told me later I was yawning – that's how he figured out something was wrong. Well… that and the fact I hung up on him." He still hadn't let me forget about _that_.

Like every word he said was endlessly fascinating.

"What happened after you hung up?"

"It really isn't clear. I remember something knocking me to the ground." Pain had exploded in the back of my head as I crashed to the floor, my attacker's hands wrapping around my throat. "I tried to fight back, but my body wouldn't listen to me."

"That had to be frightening."

"I didn't have much time to be scared. Sherlock figured out what was happening and rushed back to the apartment. He battered the door down and knocked my attacker away from me."

It was blurry, but I could see Sherlock pulling a metal rod from his coat and snapping it open. Within a minute, my attacker had fallen to the ground, unconscious.

His face coldly furious, Sherlock had struck him again.

"I think seeing someone he knows like that - as the victim in a crime scene – shook him up. I think it reminded him of what happened with Irene… what he thought happened with Irene."

It had been my decision to take the case, but I knew Sherlock blamed himself. I could see it in the way he had been avoiding my eyes since it happened.

"I mean, I don't think he's going to relapse or anything. He's a lot stronger than you'd expect, even with everything he's gone through. His brother, Irene… I just wish there was some way I could make it easier for him, but he's so reluctant to let anyone help him."

"Joan…" Dr. Reed prods.

"Yes?"

"This session is supposed to be about you, but you've spent most of it talking about Sherlock."

"Well, he's a part of my life."

It sounds like he's an important part."

"Of course he is - I work with him. And I consider him a friend."

"And you sure that's all?"

"Of course." Obviously, I had felt _something_ after he had rescued me. He had just saved my life and there he was, kneeling by my side and holding me in his arms with my head resting against his chest. It was natural I would feel safe with him. "We're friends. That's the way it's supposed to be."

It would be crazy to think anything else.


	4. Chapter 4

_She is late._ The clock's hands have moved round the hour mark and begun their descent once more. _She is now a full thirty minutes past due._

It was ridiculous, really. The social activities she insists on undertaking are nothing but distractions from what she should be concentrating on – becoming the extraordinary detective I know she is capable of being.

_She would have been better off staying home and studying Descartes. That, at least, is an accurate portrayal of the vagaries of human behavior._

The book lies on the desk next to the monitor, in the precise location it landed when she tossed it at me.

_Apparently, she did not appreciate my efforts persuading her to forsake her tryst._

In any case, her absence gives me the opportunity to enjoy a few activities she would not condone of.

Flipping rapidly from one web site to the next, I scan for some sign of anything even remotely interesting.

_There is nothing. How is it possible that with the entire world wide web at my disposal, there is nothing stimulating enough to hold my attention for more than a few seconds?_

My thoughts pull me in a thousand directions, each one clamoring for the lion's share of my attention. It creates a buzzing in my head, an electric hum that vibrates down my spine and spreads out through my body, seeking release.

If Watson were here, it would not be a problem. I have found that sparring with her – either physically in a single stick sessions or verbally in one of our many debates – focuses my mind and leaves me curiously refreshed.

_But she isn't here; she is late._

My fingers jittery with the energy I cannot entirely repress, I resume my search. You would think that someone would have the courtesy to respond to the Kurt Kobain/CIA conspiracy theory I put about earlier today, but apparently there is nothing I can rely on tonight.

_Watson will be glad. _

She feels it is unsporting of me to toy with the paranoia of individuals who dwell amongst the conspiracy theory chat rooms. She finds it far more entertaining to attend an insipid presentation of a show that was outdated thirty years ago.

A show which should have ended forty-eight minutes ago, with exactly eighteen minutes needed for the taxi ride home.

_I suppose her escort is taking her to an après-theater dinner. How very predictable._

Watson, of course, will be delighted. She puts entirely too much stock in the culinary arts. I sometimes believe it was the only reason she succumbed to Mycroft's intimate advances. I can think of no other reason she would subscribe to such a lapse of poor taste.

_At least that is done with._

Since the wide resources of the internet have failed me, I am forced to resort to the panacea of the idiot boxes. Snapping all the sets on to different channels, I let the flickering images and barrage of sound wash over me.

_Perhaps she has decided to go back to his place._

For some reason, she never brings anyone back to the brownstone. Quite possibly she feels as I do, that this is a safe haven. It is a place outsiders do not belong. It is one of the reasons I ceased inviting women here. The other being that as of late, I have found the thought of my regular arrangements so unsatisfying that I have had no desire to schedule one.

Undoubtedly one of the vagaries of aging.

_She should have told me if her plans had changed. What if Gregson or Bell calls with a case? _

I should text her. She is determined to hone her detective skills; she would hate to miss out on an investigation due to something as paltry as a date with a man she hardly knows.

The phone chirrups, the sound barely audible over the blaring of the television sets.

_It's about time._

"Watson, there you are." A sense of anticipation filters through the energy buzzing through my body. Even the most trivial of conversations with Watson – and there are few of our discussions I would categorize thusly – has proven an effective antidote for boredom. "I was about to begin classifying species of cicada native to the area. I shall wait for you to start."

A laugh comes over the line, low and cultured. "Always busy, aren't you, my dear boy?"

It is the last voice I want to hear. _Moriarity._

Since her lawyers arranged her release on a technicality seven months ago, she has managed to slip through all my attempts to send her back to incarceration. She hounds me like a terrier chasing a fox, snapping at my heels in a reminder of how gullible I had once been.

"I have told you repeatedly," I say, refusing to participate in any more of her convoluted games, "I wish no contact with you unless, of course, it is in an interrogation room and you are confessing the multitude of your crimes."

"But dearest," she replies, her voice husky with amusement, "I only wished to offer my sympathy. It must be difficult being alone in the house without your faithful mascot for company."

A cold feeling slithers through my stomach, freezing my disquiet and replacing it with a colder, more dangerous emotion. All other thoughts disappear as my body turns rigid, my hand clutching the phone so tightly I am surprised it doesn't break. "What have you done to her?"

Moriarty's sigh is long-suffering. "Really, Sherlock, I thought you knew me better than that. I haven't done anything to your little protégé. She'll be home shortly, quite unharmed, I might add."

The breath begins to return to my lungs, hastened by the sound of the front door opening and the sound of Watson's heels clicking on the wooden floor.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Sherlock," she calls apologetically. "The show ran a little long, and the oddest thing happened after we left the theater." She enters the room, a slight smile on her face and a rejuvenated glow to her skin. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were talking to someone. I'll tell you about it later."

My hand clenches closer around the phone. "I am, unfortunately, on hold," I tell her, grateful she has not yet learned to know when I am lying. "Tell me now."

"It was nothing, really. Neil and I were waiting for a taxi when some guy appeared out of nowhere and literally swept me off my feet. It freaked me out, of course, but it turned out he saw me from the side and mistook me for his fiancée. He was really embarrassed when he realized I wasn't her, but he showed me a picture and the resemblance was uncanny." Her brows are raised in disbelief, but her eyes are lit with the wonder of discovery. "She really does look like me."

I strive to make my voice sound normal. "You don't say?"

"Yeah. I guess it's true that everyone has a double out there somewhere. I just never expected to see mine." She shakes her head, obviously bemused. "Anyway, all the excitement made me hungry. I'm going to grab a sandwich. You want one?"

"No. I ate earlier." The knots in my stomach are too tight to pretend to eat. "And I have my vigil to continue." I indicate the phone, grateful that Moriarity's name does not appear on the caller ID.

"Oh, right. I'll leave you to it, then." She exits the room, leaving me alone to do what I need to do.

I bring the phone to my ear, dreading what I will hear.

"I told you, my love, I didn't harm a hair on her head. In fact, my man tells me she was happy to see the picture of her doppelganger. She's quite easily amused, isn't she?"

Ignoring the baited question, I give her the reply she wants.

"Tell me what you want me to do."


	5. Chapter 5

**(I believe this is still appropriate for a "T" rating, please let me know if it should be "M".)**

Three months. That's all it has taken to alienate everyone I know. Captain Gregson, Lieutenant Bell, Alfonse, even Mrs. Hudson. They are all gone.

_And it is still not enough._

I stare at the note in my hand, but I do not need to see the words to recall what they say. The flowery script is etched into my brain, seared with a white-hot intensity;

**You're running out of time.**

I have done everything Moriarity has asked. I have driven away those closest to me. I have ceased attending my support meetings. I have even altered my appearance, forsaking the more regulated dress code appropriate for my profession and reverting back to the haphazard mish-mosh I employed when I was first recovering.

_I have done all this and more, but it will be meaningless if I cannot convince Watson to abandon me._

Moriarity wants to hurt me… to punish me for my defection. What better way to do so than to deprive me of the people who made it possible to see her for who she truly is? Worse yet, to force me to become the instrument of that deprivation.

_I will not say it was an easy task, but my behavior only hurt them. My refusal to follow Moriarity's demands would have killed them. _

Ripping the note into tiny shreds, I let the pieces fall to the floor where they can mingle with the rest of the clutter and debris lying there.

_Watson will be here any minute._

The room, like the rest of the house, is in shambles. With Mrs. Hudson gone, the daily chores of housekeeping have piled up unattended. Since I threw Watson out of the brownstone, it has only gotten worse. In the midst of dirty dishes and old cold case files flung about, a mattress lies dead center, hauled down from my bedroom and bereft of covers. Save for the absence of needles, it is as close to the way I lived as a junkie as I can bear to recreate. Even now, my skin crawls with a mixture of longing and revulsion as memories of my addiction bubble to the surface.

_If it makes Watson believe I am too far gone for her to help, it will be worth it_.

There is a knock at the door. "Sherlock? Let me in."

This isn't right. She has walked through that door so many times; she shouldn't have to question her welcome. She shouldn't have to beg admittance. This is her home.

I unlock the door and it swings open.

Standing before me, she looks much as she did the evening she left. The circles under her eyes are darker, but the eyes themselves wear the same expression of concern and confusion.

I want to assure her that I have learned the lessons she taught me too well to relapse into my old life. I want to send her upstairs to her room where she can get the sleep she so patently needs, waking rested and secure in the knowledge that everything is alright.

_I want her to be safe. _

I turn my back and walk away from her. "Your belongings are piled in the corner. Do not touch anything else."

"Sherlock, we need to talk about this." Her voice is quiet but determined. As I feared, she is not about to let me destroy myself so easily.

If I was not so frightened, I would be flattered and awed by her persistence.

"There is nothing to talk about. Our partnership is at an end. I will admit you proved somewhat useful when we first met, but you have long since worn out your efficacy."

"Sherlock, you need to stop this," she snaps, anger making her sound as dictatorial as when she was my sober companion, when she showed me a different way to co-exist with the world around me.

_I cannot look at her. It is difficult enough to say these things to her; I cannot bear to watch her reaction. _

"Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound, prattling on about what I must do? You rule your life by a convoluted set of arbitrary guidelines that, frankly, even I can't make any sense of. When I asked you to become my apprentice, I had thought molding you into someone capable of rational thought would prove an entertaining project. I can see now I sadly overestimated my own capabilities."

Staring at the crime scene photos pasted over the mantle, my jaw working as I spit out the words, I broach the one subject we have always avoided, the one subject that can only damage our friendship.

"There is only one possible benefit I could imagine from continuing our association, but as you are too repressed to enjoy fornication, you have proved yourself useless even at that."

"Is that really what you think?" Her voice is so disbelieving, so filled with skepticism, that I am forced to turn and face her. "That's the only reason for us to keep working together?"

Far from being cowed by my rude behavior and vile lies, she looks almost amused. It is as if she can see through me to the secrets I am trying to hide.

"My dear Watson," I say, using sarcasm like a scalpel in an attempt to sever the bond between us, "unlike those who care about the opinions of others, I always say what I think."

"Fine. If that's what you want, then go for it." She unbuttons the top button of her blouse, her head cocked to the side and a challenge writ upon her face. "Well, what are you waiting for? Fornicate away."

I can only stare at her, astounded by her bravado. She is still trying to prove there is a reason for my behavior, still determined to find out what that reason is.

_I cannot let her do so._

I lean in until my nose is grazing hers, our mouths millimeters apart. "One of the many problems with you, Watson, is that you think everyone shares your notion of propriety. I can assure you, I don't."

I allow my lips to brush lightly against hers, giving her time to pull away. She doesn't, and I take the kiss deeper. Tasting her, breathing in her scent, my control turns perilously thin.

Hating myself for what I have to do, hating myself even more for deriving pleasure from the feel of her mouth underneath mine, I use my body to press her back against the wall. My hands move up, skimming the sides of her hips and pulling them towards me. Biting her lips in an erotic demand that reveals the depth of my hunger, I wait for her to shove me away, to say the words that will leave me utterly alone, but she remains silent.

Terrified that my actions have not only disgusted but frightened her, I pull back, bracing for the cold hatred in her eyes.

Wet with unshed tears, her eyes are anything but cold. They are filled with so much sorrow and understanding that it threatens to shatter me entirely.

"You are not that man anymore," she whispers, her hands coming up to my shoulders as if to finally push me away. "I don't think you ever were."

My heart is pounding in my chest as I struggle to clear the haze of lust clouding my judgment. "I am who I have always been, Watson," I insist, trying to convince us both. "Anything else you thought you saw was simply an illusion."

"Maybe you're right." The tears have cleared from her eyes, but the sorrow remains. "Maybe the Sherlock I knew never existed."

"He didn't." _He can't._

"Then it's time I tell him goodbye." Curling her hands around my shoulders, she pulls me closer. Before I know what she intends, she has kissed me.

My arms wrap around her of their own accord, desperate to prolong her touch. One of my hands wends its way up until it cradles the back of her head, my fingers delving into the soft, silky texture of her hair. Lust, sharp and powerful after being denied for so long, takes over, vanquishing all thoughts of driving her away and leaving only overwhelming need in its place.

As she pushes the coat off my shoulders, it slides down to the floor. Wanting nothing more than to strip the rest of my clothes – and hers – off in a frenzied rush, I force myself to move slowly, to savor each touch, each caress.

_I have to make it right for her. I have to make her burn, too. If I can do that, perhaps one day she'll think of me with some measure of happiness. _

Slowly, almost reverently, I open the fastenings of her blouse, one by one, exposing her bare skin inch by succulent inch.

_I can't let her go without stealing one last memory._

Sinking to my knees, sliding my hands up under the edge of her skirt, I know that this moment will stay with me for the rest of my life, haunting me more than the ghost of Irene or the lingering hold of my addiction ever could.


	6. Chapter 6

(**I have changed the perspective for this scene. It didn't feel right to offer a strictly first person view; I wanted to peek into both of their heads. Italics indicate Sherlock's perspective. For added angst, listen to "Say Something" by A Great Big World during this.)**

Joan watched as he rolled off the mattress and pulled his jeans up. Moving briskly, with every motion precisely measured and coldly dismissive, he rose and faced the mantle.

"This was a mistake." His voice was as stiff and unyielding as his posture. The muscles in his back were tight with tension, standing out like cords underneath his skin.

_It was all he could do not to turn, to bear her down to the mattress and take her again._

"I know." She reached for her shirt. The quiet rustle it made as she buttoned it up was the only sound left after her words had faded away.

Sitting on the edge of the mattress, with the echo of his touch still lingering on her body, she couldn't help but remember the first time she saw him. It seemed like such a long time ago. He had been looking away then, too. He had spun around to face her and asked if she believed in love at first sight.

She hadn't. She still didn't. Love didn't spring from thin air. It had to blossom – nurtured by tiny gestures and unexpected kindness.

This time, he refused to face her. Standing, she moved to behind him and placed her hand on his bare shoulder.

_The muscles under his skin jumped, clamoring to fulfill his baser needs. Lust, sharp and urgent, rose as swiftly as if it hadn't been satiated so fully just minutes before._

"I hope you're not expecting any post-coital cuddling. I've always found it a waste of time and effort. Although if you're looking for another round," he said, making no effort to hide the indifference in his voice. "I can probably indulge you in say, twenty minutes or so."

Her eyes closed briefly as she forced his words out of her mind. Later, when she was alone and there was nothing left to fight for, then she would let herself feel the pain.

For now there are more important things to do. "You will do what you want, you always have," she began, opening her eyes and trying to find the words to get through to him, "but I'm asking you… as a friend… as a former partner… Please don't do anything you can't come back from."

His eyebrows rose in amused condescension. "Your concern is noted but unnecessary. I am in full control of my capacities, as I believe I have aptly demonstrated." His hand moved at his side, gesturing vaguely to the mattress behind him.

_Forgive me, Joan. Even if I will never forgive myself._

Her fingers drew away from his shoulder, fighting the compulsion to linger. It was obvious he didn't want her there. "I see." She could feel the pain he was trying to disguise, but she couldn't help him.

Not if he wouldn't let her.

"I won't bother you anymore. Goodbye, Sherlock."

She supposed she should be grateful she made it out the door before she began to cry.

* * *

**(I was listening to "Let Her Go" by Passenger while I wrote the following.)**

A piece of paper stares blankly back at me as I search for the words to explain, to let her know why I have done what I have.

Nothing comes. How do I put it into mere words?

If Moriarity could see me now, she would be convinced I have fallen privy to despair. It is close enough to the truth that even I believe it.

My knuckles are throbbing, scrapped as raw as my thoughts. The hole in the wall seems to mock me, bearing silent testament to the damage I have done to everyone and everything around me. The damage I have done to Watson… to Joan.

The image of her face as she fled the brownstone will be etched into my memory until I take my dying breath.

Thankfully, that shouldn't be much longer. The final note came an hour ago. Instructions on when and where to meet Moriarity. I know what she wants from me. Now, as the end drew near, I can read her easily. She has destroyed everything that holds meaning for me. There is nothing left for her to ruin; there are no other ways to twist my psyche into the knots she delights in tying. All that is left for her to enjoy is causing me physical pain, and eventually, my death at her hands.

It is a small enough price to pay for keeping my friends safe, a fitting retribution for the chaos my association with them has caused.

I pick up the pen once more and think of what she has been to me. Sober companion. Associate. _Friend_. She has become the family I never knew I needed and the partner I never imagined possible.

The pen slips from my fingers.

There are no words to tell her what she means to me. There is nothing I can do to convey how grateful I am that she came into my life, how privileged I am to have known her.

It is better not to try. If she were to suspect I drove her away on purpose, she would feel guilty for what happens next. She would mourn my death. Let her believe I am the vain, selfish man I knew before she transformed me. Let her see I was never worthy of the support she so unstintingly offered me.

I crumple the paper up into a tight wad.

I have caused her enough pain, I will not add more.


	7. Chapter 7

The warehouse smells of brittle wood and mold, remnants of a prosperous past laid low by the capricious turns of an unstable economy. Par for the course, my father abandoned it the moment it lost its profitability, refusing to allow its inhabitants the opportunity to recover their losses. Always impatient, he never believed in offering second chances.

When they discover my body here, it will doubtlessly confirm the wisdom of his world view.

"I wondered if you would come." Moriarity's voice echoes through the cavernous room, bouncing off walls and reverberating back until it surrounds me. "I confess, I had hoped you would change your mind. It's the pawns' duty to sacrifice themselves so the king may live – not the other way around."

As my eyes adjust to the dark, I can make out the rough outline of her slim figure. She stands in the center of the room, making no attempt to conceal herself.

"I'm here," I snap, impatient to have this charade done with. I know what she has in mind for me; I will not indulge her need for theatrics. "Let's get on with it."

She moves towards me, stepping into a pool of light left by the sole functioning light bulb hanging overhead. The gun in her hand is steady as she approaches, its barrel trained on me with unwavering precision.

"I'm sure you'll understand if I take a few precautions. It wouldn't be the first time you've tried to record our conversations, after all." Waving the pistol at my torso, she indicates for me to pull up my shirt.

I lift it up, baring a chest free of wires. "Search if you must. There is nothing to find."

I raise my arms above my head. It is all I can do to force my hands to remain still. It would be easy to overpower Moriarity, to take her pistol away and turn it on her, but I cannot do it. I cannot risk it any more than I could take the chance of her discovering a wiretap on me. Even if I were to succeed in stopping her, she must have people working for her.

People who can get to Watson.

Moriarity smiles as if she can sense the struggle within me. She begins to pat me down, her hands moving over me in an obscene parody of a lover's caress.

"Feels like old times, doesn't it, darling? Of course, you were usually wearing handcuffs then. Perhaps I should have thought to bring some along." Her nails rake the bare flesh of my chest. "You always did enjoy that."

It is all I can do not to back away in disgust.

She knows that in the past I have refused to give in to my feelings for her. I cannot let her know that those feelings have long since died away, leaving nothing but revulsion in their place.

"You don't say my name anymore," she whispers, pressing her body against mine. "I've missed it. I always loved the way you sounded when you called me Irene."

"Irene, Jamie, Moriarity… whatever I call you, it doesn't change who you are." None of her many personas were real; they were all illusions crafted by a psychopath.

She stretches up to bite my earlobe, laughing huskily as I pull away from the contact. "If it doesn't matter, then call me Irene. I want to hear you say it again."

I cannot do it. If I do, she will hear it in my voice. She will know I have changed irrevocably. "There is no point to this. You know I cannot condone what you have done."

With a heavy sigh, she backs away. "Since you obviously don't wish to stroll down memory lane, I'll get straight to the point." Her left hand reaching into her pocket and a hard look upon her still beautiful face, she pulls out a filled syringe. "Once before, you tricked me into thinking I had driven you into an overdose. This time, I'm going to make sure it happens. You're going to take this needle, Sherlock, and you're going to inject yourself while I watch."

"Oh, don't worry," she adds, seeing the flinch I cannot quite hide. "You won't have to go through that embarrassing recovery program again. There's quite enough here to kill you."

_This was not part of the plan._ "Why not just shoot me?" I ask, fighting to sound calm.

The back of her fingers brush my cheek, the cold metal of the gun scraping past my ear. "I want everyone you care about, everyone you are sacrificing yourself for, to think you relapsed." Her smile is tender, her eyes warm with satisfaction. "When they think of you, they won't remember Sherlock Holmes as a great detective. All they will remember is the junkie who died alone and utterly friendless."

"I won't do it." _Not like this. I cannot let it happen like this._ "I have jumped through all of your hoops like a performing bear, but I won't do this."

"You will, or your precious Watson will be dead before the night is out."

Moriarity knows me. To die a failure has always been one of my greatest fears. To die knowing Watson thinks I have failed her is unbearable.

But for all that Moriarity knows me…

_I know her just as well._

I reach for the syringe, grabbing it from her hand. Rolling up my sleeve, old habits take over and I find myself looking for the best vein to use. I can imagine the needle sliding in, can almost feel the rush of the heroin entering my blood and bringing oblivion.

"And I have your word that you will leave my friends alone? You will not harm them in any way?" I ask, not even looking at her. My focus is entirely on the needle.

"Of course."

After working my belt out of its loops with one hand, I wrap it around my arm and cinch it off. "As dying goes, I suppose there are less pleasurable ways. And at least I have the satisfaction of it being on my terms."

"Do not delude yourself, Sherlock." For the first time, anger enters her voice. "_I_ am the one making you do this. I am in control, as I have always been, and once I have killed you, there won't be anything that can slow me down, let alone stop me. Now quit stalling and do it before I give my man the word to blow Miss Watson's brains out."

"I don't think so." Moriarity has given me almost everything I need to protect Watson, but I have to make sure. I drop the syringe to the floor. "I think you're going to have to do this one yourself."

Moriarity's brow furrows, marring the porcelain perfection of her face. "What are you doing?" The gun rises to aim at my heart. "I _will_ shoot you."

"I know." _I'm counting on it._ "It's more fitting this way, don't you think? Who else but Moriarity could kill me?"

_It was easy to predict where she would arrange our final meeting. Easier still to set up a hidden video camera. When she kills me, the live feed will be recorded by one of my irregulars and delivered to several people I can count on to release it if anything happens to Watson._

I crush the syringe under my foot. "After all we've been to each other, this is the way it should end."

For a moment, I wonder if I have pushed her too far. The softening of her smile lets me know I have not.

"Bound together even after your death… I like it." The gun clicks as she cocks it. "Goodbye, my love."

"Police! Drop your weapon!"

Sirens wail as the front door crashes in and the greater portion of the NYPD bursts through. Moriarity's gun fires, but a tackle from an officer wearing a bullet-proof vest saves my life.

Moriarity does not fare as well. The moment her gun discharges, she is met with return fire, and she falls to the ground.

"No!" I scream, fighting off the officer trying to keep me pinned safely to the floor. "You don't know what you've done."

I race to Moriarity's side, hoping against hope that she still lives, but it is too late. I sink to my knees, staring at her lifeless body, my world shattered into a million disjointed pieces.

_I have lost my only chance to protect Joan. _

"Sherlock, it's alright. It's going to be alright." Gregson is at my shoulder, trying to pull me up, but he doesn't understand. With Moriarity dead, whoever she was working with will target Joan.

"Sherlock," Gregson yells, shaking me, "We've been keeping a watch on Moriarity. We already have her men in custody. It's over. Your friends are safe."

His words begin to seep into my consciousness. Can it be true?

"How?" I stutter, trying to make sense of it. "How did you know?"

"I didn't. When you started acting up, I thought you were just going back to your previous charming self." Pulling me up, he steers me away from Moriarity's body and out of the warehouse, letting his officers begin the messy work of cleanup. "But Watson kept after me until I began to think maybe she had the right idea - maybe there _was_ a reason you were being such an asshole. We've been monitoring you ever since."

"Watson! Where is she?! Is she all right?!" My heart is pounding, terrified that somehow it might still go wrong.

"She's over there." She is standing next to a police cruiser, surrounded by a wall of armored officers that make her appear tiny. Her eyes are somber and there are worry lines etched upon her face. "But I'll warn you, I don't think she's very happy with you. She had some pretty choice words to say about the danger you put yourself in."

"I want to talk to her." I need to make sure she's alright, that she knows why I acted as I did.

She turns away from me and climbs into the car.

"Let it be. This has been hard on her." Gregson says, putting his hand on my shoulder to restrain me from going after her. "Maybe she'll speak with you at the station – _after_ you've given your official statement."


End file.
